


What's My Hand Without Your Heart To Hold

by poetzproblem



Series: Don't Blink [38]
Category: Glee
Genre: Emotional Hurt, F/F, Humor, Insecurity, Jealousy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-20 06:44:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20223526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetzproblem/pseuds/poetzproblem
Summary: They haven't been in love for very long—well, in love with each other together at the same time—and Quinn still has to remind herself from time-to-time that this is actually real. Rachel really loves her now and they're actually in a relationship.





	What's My Hand Without Your Heart To Hold

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Note:** Number 38 of the _Don't Blink_ series. A jump back to the early days, set directly after _That Smile That Has Me Sold_ and before _Shuffling the Cards of Your Game._
> 
> Thanks and cyber-hugs to Skywarrior108 for being a sounding board. Still mostly unbetaed - an attempt to break my writer's block.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** I do not own _Glee_ or the characters. I just like to play with them…strictly non-profit.

_And I hope I never see the day_  
_That you move on and be happy_  
_Without me, without me_  
_Oh, what's my hand without your heart to hold?_  
_I don't know what I'm living for_  
_If I'm living, without you_  
_~Tell Me You Love Me, Demi Lovato_

* * *

Rachel isn't really hungover—not in the way that Quinn has been hungover on those select few occasions that had left her feeling like she'd been run over by a truck (again) and swearing off alcohol forever (which always turns out to be only until the next time she's stupid enough to overindulge).

No, Rachel's version of a hangover is slightly less dramatic, ironically enough. While Quinn suffers through pounding headaches and nausea and a general aversion to any and all types of movement, including breathing, Rachel mostly tends to sleep (and snore like a chainsaw) through her morning exercise and beauty regimes before she eventually stumbles groggily out of bed with an unintelligible grunt, walking around in a daze and staying blissfully quiet until she's had at least three cups of coffee.

This morning's grunt had been more of a groan, and Rachel had actually dragged herself out of bed shortly after Quinn's alarm had gone off, even managing a half-smile and a (not quite chipper) "G'morning" before her first sip of coffee, leaving Quinn to deduce that she's not really hungover. Of course, she could just be making an extra effort to shake off her hangover daze a little earlier today since Quinn has to leave for work in forty minutes.

It's also possible that their very lengthy shower last night, in addition to the after-shower activities that had followed, had worked wonders to sober Rachel up and, therefore, reduce the severity of her hangover even more.

"I trust you won't be drunkenly stumbling through my door again tonight," Quinn says once Rachel is seated across from her at her small kitchen table and has a suitable amount of coffee in her. She smirks over the rim of her own cup as she takes in her girlfriend's still rumpled and mussed appearance. Her hair is a mess of kinks and curls, and she'd commandeered Quinn's favorite Yale t-shirt and a pair of pink panties in lieu of the now-wrinkled dress that she'd been wearing yesterday.

A visible grimace twists Rachel's features, and she slouches lower in her chair. "I will not." Her voice sounds just a little bit scratchy, and she lifts a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose, shaking her head. "I really can't afford to miss another show this week. I've already given Amanda too much time in my spotlight."

Quinn bites back her laughter. "Just yesterday you were waxing poetic about the beauty of understudies."

Rachel's cheeks grow ruddy at the reminder. "That was very clearly the wine talking. I can't be held responsible."

Quinn's smile slips away—guilt sinking like a stone in her stomach. "You swore you were sober last night. Well, sober enough," she amends with a frown. She'd known that Rachel had been by no means completely sober, but Quinn had still chosen to accept that she'd been alert enough to make a fully consensual decision to have sex.

Despite her hangover, Rachel is quick to pick up on Quinn's anxiety, offering a crooked grin. "I was most assuredly sober enough to consent to our intimate activities." The grin turns rueful. "It's everything that happened prior to Santana depositing me on your doorstep for which I may not have been fully in my right mind."

It's an open invitation for Quinn to ask the question that's been tickling at her brain since last night. "And what exactly _did_ happen before she brought you here? Other than the six glasses of wine you drank and the telling her about our sex life?"

She hasn't forgotten for a moment the wicked smirk on Santana's face before she'd left them alone—the one that promised a story that Quinn isn't sure she'll appreciate, no matter how funny Santana and Rachel (in her drunken state) seemed to think it was yesterday.

"It was four glasses of wine and two sangrias," Rachel feels the need to clarify, "which were quite delicious, by the way. I'm not sure exactly what fruits were in the mixture, but I'm sure I tasted just a hint of pomegranate that really gave it that extra..."

"Rachel," Quinn interrupts, caught between amusement and exasperation. "I don't need the recipe." And really, after drinking that much alcohol, she's surprised that Rachel could even manage to stand up yesterday, let alone—well, she'd certainly been sober enough to accomplish those intimate activities that she'd been so insistent upon last night.

"Oh…well," Rachel mutters sheepishly, cheeks pinkening once again before she moistens her lips and gives Quinn a little nod of understanding. "In point of fact, I did not tell Santana anything about our sex life. Except that we have one now," she continues after a thoughtful pause in which a satisfied smile curves her lips. "And it's kind of amazing."

"I imagine she had a lot of colorful comments to make about that," Quinn muses, internally cringing that the subject of their sex life would even come up in the first place and hoping against hope that Rachel really didn't say anything more than that.

"It's Santana," Rachel offers by way of an answer, shrugging.

"Mmmhmm. And you," Quinn reminds her needlessly. "Alone in a bar. And I seem to recall you mentioning something about a pretty, not straight waitress?" She certainly hadn't forgotten that not-insignificant detail either, despite Rachel's (very successful) attempts to distract her last night. Quinn still wants to know what her girlfriend and her best friend had been up to yesterday that involved attaching the adjectives of _pretty _or _not-straight_ to any woman who was only supposed to be serving them drinks.

"No, the waitress was very straight," Rachel assures her, "and not at all interested in Santana. Or me, actually," she adds with a faint pout that makes Quinn's stomach clench unpleasantly. "She didn't even recognize my name after I told her I was starring on Broadway. Can you believe that?"

And okay—Rachel's ego taking a small hit at not being recognized probably accounts for the pout, but that does very little to quell the uneasiness that Quinn is suddenly feeling. "Why exactly do you know any of that about your waitress?" Who should have only been serving them drinks. With no reason to clarify her sexuality.

The trace of guilt that flashes over Rachel's expressive features only intensifies Quinn's uneasiness. "I may have offered to be Santana's wingwoman."

Quinn makes a valiant effort to ignore the myriad of unwanted images that declaration provokes and the jealousy that erupts because of them.

She fails.

"Why would you…? Do you even know what that means?" Quinn demands, trying to remind herself that her definition of being Santana Lopez's wingwoman and Rachel's definition are probably not the same thing.

"Of course, I do, Quinn," Rachel insists, looking mildly insulted. "I'm hip to the dating slang. I have game."

"Of course you do, sweetie," she appeases despite her growing irritation. She might even find Rachel's total lack of hipness adorable under different circumstances. "But I've been Santana's wingwoman, so I know exactly what that usually entails." She has quite a few X-rated memories of what that usually entails, in fact—things that Quinn never wants to imagine Rachel doing with any other woman but her; things that Quinn had enjoyed to the fullest when she'd been single that she would never even consider now that she's happily in a relationship with Rachel. "And you shouldn't be using any of your _game _on any other women, straight or not straight, because you're very much taken."

"I am," Rachel agrees with a certain nod. "But Santana isn't. I was only attempting to help her charm a receptive woman, although she obviously turned out to be an unreceptive as Teresa."

Quinn's stomach clenches again. "Who's Teresa?" The idea of Rachel attempting to charm someone else, even on Santana's behalf, bothers Quinn more than she can express—and apparently there were actually _two_ someone elses!

Rachel's eyes widen. "Um…the bartender?"

Quinn draws in a measured breath. "Is that a question or an answer?"

Rachel takes a breath of her own, holding Quinn's gaze. "She's the bartender at _Ten Degrees_, where Santana asked me to meet her yesterday. She…um….she was definitely not interested in Santana, although I'm certain she was not, in fact, straight."

The particular way she says that sends another shiver of apprehension racing through Quinn. "And why are you so certain of that?" she pushes, attempting to keep the edge out of her voice.

Rachel's eyes dart away tellingly, and Quinn braces for what she's certain is coming. "She may have…um…made some subtle comments indicating that she would not be opposed to _my_ attention."

A wave of jealousy crashes over Quinn at the revelation, but she struggles to keep her head above it, taking another deep breath before she carefully forms her next words. "So, you're telling me some bartender flirted with you yesterday."

Rachel nods, fidgeting in her chair and twisting her fingers together nervously. "It was actually kind of flattering," she confesses with a hesitant smile, searching Quinn's eyes. "But only as a balm to my vanity, of course," she explains quickly when she undoubtedly notices the unamused expression on Quinn's face.

Hurt rushes in over the jealousy, burning through Quinn's lungs and churning in her stomach until she feels sick with it. Some other woman flirted with Rachel and Rachel had _liked_ it. For years, she couldn't even be bothered to notice Quinn silently pining away for her, but suddenly some bartender bats her eyelashes and she's_ flattered—_enough to have learned her _name._ "Was she pretty?" Quinn hears herself asking in a voice that sounds far too needy for her liking.

Rachel instantly reaches across the table for her hand. "No, baby."

"You're lying," Quinn accuses, instantly pulling her hand away. Rachel wouldn't have been nearly so flattered by the attention if this Teresa person wasn't pretty.

Rachel leans back with a resigned sigh. "I suppose she was attractive enough, but she's not nearly as pretty as you are, Quinn," she vows earnestly. "You know you're the prettiest girl I've ever met."

Quinn does know that. Rachel has told her often enough, both before and after she'd fallen in love with Quinn. It's just that they haven't been in love for very long—well, in love with each other together at the same time—and Quinn still has to remind herself from time-to-time that this is actually real. Rachel really loves her now and they're actually in a relationship. This version of them is still so new to her, and as much as she wants to, Quinn still doesn't entirely trust that it won't end painfully for her the way so many things have in the past. "You did let this bartender and waitress both know you have a girlfriend, right?"

Rachel opens her mouth, presumably to say _yes_, but then she hesitates. "Oh…I…think it was probably implied," is what she says instead.

It does nothing to make Quinn feel better. "Probably?"

Rachel begins to fidget again. "Well, I didn't actually state it in those exact terms." Which, of course, means that she didn't say it _at all_, and Quinn feels irrationally slighted by the omission—something she suspects is clearly reflected on her face if Rachel's next rush of words are anything to go by. "But I did make it very clear to our waitress…her name was Rhonda, by the way," she reveals, as if Quinn would really give a damn, "that Santana was the one who was interested in her, not me. As for Teresa...well she honestly took me by surprise, Quinn. I didn't even realize she was flirting with me until Santana pointed it out, and even then, I didn't really believe her until Teresa gave me her phone number."

"She gave you her number?" Quinn asks shrilly, upset that some other woman had tried to pick up her girlfriend and that Rachel hadn't even seemed to comprehend what was happening.

"Um…on a napkin. But I didn't take it," Rachel quickly promises, reaching for Quinn's hand again and determinedly prying her fingers loose from the painful fist they'd unknowingly curled into.

Quinn takes a deliberate breath and tries to swallow down her jealousy, nodding slowly. "Okay, so…she tried to give you her number and you gave it back to her and told her you weren't interested."

Rachel stares at her for just a moment too long—long enough for Quinn to see the indecision on her face before she finally says, "Not…exactly."

Quinn draws her hand back again, cradling it closer to her body. "What _exactly _did you tell her?"

She watches Rachel's eyes dart away, watches her shift uncomfortably, watches her mouth form the words, "Nothing. I just…um… left the napkin on the bar."

The hurt and jealousy that have been swirling around inside of Quinn suddenly spin with enough force to snap her temper. "Why in the hell didn't you tell her you have a girlfriend?"

Rachel shrinks back into her chair, shaking her head weakly. "I…I don't know, Quinn. I've never had an attractive woman try to pick me up before. I don't really know the protocol for these situations."

"The _protocol _is to tell them you're not interested," Quinn bites out, thinking that should have been obvious, even to Rachel. "But you what? Just ghosted the bartender that was hitting on you so you could go be Santana's wingwoman and flirt with some waitress instead?"

"I wasn't flirting," Rachel hurriedly defends. "I was being…sociable. Purely on Santana's behalf."

"I can't believe you," Quinn mutters, crossing her arms defensively. "You don't flirt with other women when you have a girlfriend, Rachel."

Rachel looks affronted. "I wasn't," she denies fiercely. "They were flirting with me!"

"_They_ were?" Quinn challenges with a scowl. "I thought the waitress wasn't interested."

There's a familiar huff from across the table, and Rachel crosses her own arms to mirror Quinn's position. "Rhonda was merely being polite, probably for the sake of her tip. Teresa was flirting."

Quinn lifts a hand to point at Rachel in accusation."And you liked it, didn't you?" She wants Rachel to deny it, to say she was uncomfortable with it and assure Quinn that she's the only woman—the only _person_—that she wants flirting with her, but instead—

"So what if I did?" Rachel fires back defensively. "Is it so terrible for me to enjoy a bit of positive attention from time-to-time?"

It's the very last thing that Quinn wants to hear right now, but she supposes that she asked for it. She can feel the familiar sting of tears behind her eyes—tears she refuses to give Rachel the satisfaction of seeing fall. She'd thought the attention _she's_ been giving Rachel was more than enough, but apparently, she'd been wrong.

She pushes away from the table with a choked, "God, I need to not be here anymore," ignoring the dirty breakfast dishes and the kitchen that still needs to be cleaned and rushing into the living room where she makes a blind grab for her briefcase and keys.

"Wait. Where are you going?" Rachel calls after her, confusion lacing her voice as she stumbles up from the table to chase after Quinn. "This is your apartment!"

"I'm going to work," Quinn informs her sharply, barely glancing in Rachel's direction for fear that she'll break down and cry. "You can go to…" She bites off the word that she really wants to use to end that sentence with a frustrated shake of her head, knowing that she won't really mean it and fighting to keep her frayed temper from making this all even worse than it already feels. "Just…whatever," she mumbles sadly, jerking open the apartment door and disappearing through it. She resists the urge to slam it behind her, but the harsh click of her heels against the floor is almost enough to drown out the panicked echo of her name as it follows her down the hallway.

_xx_

Quinn's morning is complete shit.

She can't concentrate on anything at work because her fight with Rachel keeps replaying on an infinite loop in her mind. At every repetition, she finds something new to regret, and the blame keeps swinging back and forth like a pendulum. She thinks she should have never asked Rachel about yesterday, and then she thinks that Rachel should have volunteered the information last night before distracting her with sex. One moment Quinn feels like she's probably overreacting and the next she feels like Rachel isn't taking her own culpability in what happened yesterday nearly seriously enough.

She blames Santana for inviting Rachel to that bar and the bartender for coming onto her and Rachel for not shutting the woman down the moment she was handed that phone number, and mostly, she blames herself for spending too many years calling Rachel names and making her doubt her desirability to the point that she would want some random stranger flirting with her as a form of _positive attention_.

She hates that she has to worry about Rachel being tempted away by other women now when it had taken her so long to be tempted by _Quinn,_ and she hates that it's just one more thing on top of her still persistent fear that Rachel will eventually realize she's making a mistake with Quinn and actually does prefer men. And Quinn really hates that it makes her feel like she's being biphobic to even be worried about those things—but it's _Rachel_, and Quinn has never exactly been rational when it comes to her feelings for and about the frustrating woman.

And she's also aware that she's being a jealous bitch about this whole thing, but it really bothers her that Rachel apparently hadn't thought it was important to actually inform either of those hussies at the bar that she's happily in a relationship with Quinn.

So instead of preparing the rejection letters that Marilyn expects to be on her desk to sign by noon, she's staring at the blinking cursor on her computer screen and obsessing over everything she'd said and should (and shouldn't) have said to Rachel this morning—which is probably why she fails to notice the shadow that falls over her desk until her ears pick up a familiar throat being cleared.

"Quinn?"

Her eyelids flutter shut, temporarily blocking out the brightness of the computer screen while she resigns herself to the inevitable. "What are you doing here, Rachel?" she asks tiredly as she turns in her chair to find her girlfriend standing just inside her small, closet-sized office, nervously shifting her weight from foot to foot.

A tentative smile pulls at the corner of Rachel's lips, and she holds up a bag from the deli down the street—the one that serves Quinn's favorite turkey club. "I brought lunch."

Quinn doesn't return the smile. "I'm busy." She gestures to the stack of manuscripts and files on her desk. "And it's not even eleven."

Truthfully, she's a little impressed that Rachel had lasted as long as she had before showing up here with a peace offering, but she suspects that's only because Rachel had still been a little hungover and needed time to get dressed and presentable before running after Quinn. The fact that she's once again wearing the dress that she'd been wearing yesterday means that she hasn't even gone home to her own apartment yet.

Rachel's smile falls away, replaced by a pleading expression that instantly tugs at Quinn's heart, and she sets the bag down on Quinn's desk as she slips into the single chair that's squeezed into the corner against the wall. "I'm sorry, Quinn. I'm _so_ sorry. I love you. So, so much," she promises, pressing a hand to her heart and staring at Quinn with wide, apologetic eyes. "You're the only woman I want. The only _person_ I want."

"I haven't always been," Quinn reminds her sullenly, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms because they're apparently going to continue this conversation right now at her workplace.

"But you are now," Rachel assures her, and when Quinn only continues to hold her gaze expectantly, she draws in a breath, shaking her head. "Perhaps I shouldn't have allowed Santana's bartender to indulge my vanity..."

"_Perhap_s," Quinn interrupts with a frown.

"I _shouldn't_ have," Rachel acknowledges contritely, nodding slightly. "And you're right, I should have told Teresa in no uncertain terms that I wasn't interested in her advances. My only defense is that I honestly haven't found myself in that position very often, Quinn…having someone find me attractive when Santana is right there with all of her," she holds her hands out in front of her chest, pausing as if in search of the appropriate word before shaking her head. "Santana-ness," is what she finally settles on, and Quinn almost smiles at the mildly vexed expression that accompanies it. "Or, you know," Rachel continues, gesturing to Quinn, "when you're there…being you."

Quinn is reminded all over again of the damage to Rachel's self-esteem that she and Santana and basically half their classmates at McKinley had inflicted, and she hurts all over again for an entirely different reason. "You're gorgeous, Rachel."

She watches Rachel's lips curve into an almost shy smile. "And I'm still very much getting used to hearing that from you and knowing that you really see me that way."

"It's the truth," Quinn vows, thinking again that she probably deserves all of the uncertainty that she still feels with Rachel as retribution for the hell she'd put her through in the past. "I hate that I ever made you think otherwise."

"You know I forgave you for all of that long ago," Rachel dismisses easily. "So can you please forgive me now for my momentary lapse in good-judgment?"

The fact that Rachel is finally acknowledging that she may not have handled the situation yesterday in the best way is enough to appease most of Quinn's hurt feelings, and even if it wasn't, the reminder of Rachel's easy forgiveness of Quinn for things that probably shouldn't have been forgiven means there's only one answer that Quinn can give. "Yeah. I forgive you." And she thinks she mostly means it, especially when Rachel smiles at her with so much love and relief in her eyes. "But I'm not sure I'll be forgiving Santana for taking you to a bar and getting you drunk enough to flirt with waitresses."

Rachel's smile dims a bit. "I didn't flirt," she repeats doggedly.

Quinn arches an eyebrow. "You do get very touchy-feely when you're drunk though. Santana's not wrong about that." And Quinn strongly suspects that she now knows exactly why Santana had brought that fact up again last night. Even if Rachel wasn't intentionally flirting, the alcohol in her system probably made her far more affectionate with those women than she should have been.

Rachel lets out an indignant huff. "I didn't touch anyone but you." Her resolute expression wavers slightly, turning a bit embarrassed. "And, I suppose, technically, I touched Santana…"

Oh, Quinn remembers very clearly how she'd touched Santana last night, clinging to her like a vine in order to keep her balance. "You're never drinking with her again."

Rachel looks far more amused by Quinn's scowling proclamation than she should be under the circumstances. "I thought you'd be happy that we were actually bonding. Well, to a degree," she clarifies with a slight shrug.

"It's her choice of bonding activities that I question." Even without the flirting bartender and the waitress with the questionable interest, Santana shouldn't have been taking Rachel out and getting her drunk before her show.

Rachel laughs a little, shaking her head, before her expression turns serious once again, and she cautiously asks, "We're okay though?"

Quinn nods, offering her a faint smile. "Yeah. We are."

_xx_

They aren't.

Well, _they _are, Quinn supposes—she's not losing Rachel over something that she knows is fairly insignificant in the grand scheme of things—but _she _isn't fully okay yet, no matter how much she wants to be. Something about the entire situation just isn't sitting right with her despite her every effort to reason it away, which is why she ends up on Santana's doorstep after work.

"Care to explain to me what you were doing taking my girlfriend out to a bar?"

A smirk paints Santana's lips as she casually leans against the doorjamb, looking comfortable in a pair of denim shorts and a tight t-shirt that proclaims _tequila may not be the answer but it's worth a shot._ "Hello to you, too, Quinnie Pooh."

It's her least favorite nickname—well, other than _tubbers_—but she ignores it with a frustrated grunt. "Just answer me," she demands as she breezes past Santana into her living room. It's a studio apartment with a small kitchen and table on one side, a decadent queen bed on the other, and a sofa and television smack dab in the middle, so Quinn really doesn't have very far to go.

Santana pushes the door closed before she turns around to stare down Quinn, crossing her arms under her ample breasts. "Jeez. Why so serious? I delivered the midget back to you all safe and sound, and it looked to me like you were in for some good, old-fashioned drunken debauchery last night." Her smirk turns wicked. "Or did pint-sized pass out on you after I left?"

"What we did last night is none of your business," Quinn informs her prissily, crossing her own arms. "It's what you did before you brought Rachel home that you need to be worried about."

Santana snorts, shaking her head. "Just what do you think happened?"

"You know what happened, Santana. You let my girlfriend chat up some waitress."

Santana laughs at that, relaxing her posture. "Please. You _have_ met your girlfriend, right?" she asks rhetorically, pointing at Quinn. "You know her version of chatting anyone up is bragging about her talent and the greatness of Broadway. Talk about a turn-off."

Quinn clenches her jaw in annoyance, in no mood for the way Santana blatantly skirts around the point. "I know it's been awhile since you've actually been with a woman for more than sex, so you probably don't remember what it means to be in a real relationship, but it generally doesn't involve picking up other women."

Santana's expression grows darker with every word out of Quinn's mouth. "First of all, fuck you with your sanctimonious bullshit," she spits, getting right up into Quinn's face and giving a hard poke to her shoulder that sends her stumbling back a step. "It hasn't been that long since you were right there with me, picking up the ladies."

Quinn regains her balance, smoothing the fabric of her suit jacket in an attempt to appear unaffected despite the truth of Santana's words. "And now I'm in a committed relationship."

"No shit. So is Berry," Santana informs her sharply. "Jesus, Quinn." She lets out a frustrated huff, shaking her head. "All she did was be her usual, annoying, overly verbacious self and overshare all of her business and mine with some poor waitress who just wanted to get her money and get the hell away from us." Her lips quirk into an amused grin. "Except your girl was also kind of ridiculously tanked while she was doing it." Her expression immediately sobers again. "You've got nothing to worry about. Rachel is crazy about you." She rolls her eyes at that. "Also, just crazy."

Ignoring the dig, Quinn catches the corner of her lip between her teeth and considers Santana's (colorful) assessment of yesterday's events. It makes her feel marginally better about everything, but, "She said she was being your wingwoman." She _knows _Santana will know _exactly_ what that really means.

"Yeah, she sucks at that," Santana scoffs, shaking her head again. "She's a hell of a twatswatter though. Totally torpedoed my chances with Teresa," she mutters with a scowl, planting a hand on her cocked hip.

"The bartender that tried to give Rachel her phone number," Quinn prompts moodily, hoping Santana might offer a different take on that too.

"Don't remind me," Santana mutters in an almost petulant tone, but then she seems to shake it off with a chuckle. "It was actually all kinds of hilarious, Q. Streisand has no game at all. She thought Teresa was serving her up free drinks just 'cause she was a fan."

"She gave Rachel free drinks?" Quinn repeats incredulously. Rachel had failed to mention that little detail to her, and she finds herself getting upset all over again.

"Yeah. The best sangrias in Manhattan," Santana recites mockingly. "I mean, she does mix some good drinks," she admits with a contemplative tilt of her head, "but I don't think it was the liquor she was trying to sell, if you catch my drift." Unfortunately, Quinn does, and her jealousy rears back up with a vengeance. To her credit, Santana seems to notice and is quick to reassure her. "Your girl didn't do anything to encourage her though…unless you count guzzling down those drinks. Actually, she was painfully awkward about the whole thing. Makes me wonder how she ever managed to score with you."

Quinn sighs, a sad little smile pulling at her lips as she gives into her mental exhaustion and sinks down onto Santana's sofa. "You know how." Rachel's seduction techniques might not be on par with Santana's self-perceived skills, but she has her own, unique brand of charm and unexpected sexiness that Quinn (and many others) have been powerless to resist.

"Yeah. You have no taste."

"Santana," Quinn chastises weakly.

"Look. I get it," Santana concedes, sitting next to Quinn. "You're a possessive bitch. Always have been." Quinn glares at her, but she can't exactly argue the point. "But people are gonna flirt with Berry, just like they always have. She's short and annoying, but she's also semi-famous and totally fuckable." Santana looks a little uncomfortable actually admitting that last part out loud, which is the only reason Quinn doesn't comment on it. "Just 'cause she's finally figured out she swings both ways doesn't mean she's suddenly gonna want to spin around the fence a few times. Not when she's got you to come home to. I mean, let's face it, when you take me out of the equation," Santana gestures to herself smugly, "you're pretty much the ultimate catch."

It's moments like this—when Santana is actually being (mostly) serious and (kind of) supportive—that remind Quinn exactly why they're friends. "I just…she admitted that she liked the attention." And that's probably the thing that's still bothering Quinn the most.

"Well, duh," Santana dismisses with a snicker, rolling her eyes when Quinn scowls at her. "Oh, c'mon, Quinn. Girl's got an ego just like you and me. But, like, monstrously bigger than you or me," she amends with a smirk.

"Stop insulting her," Quinn warns, lightly punching Santana's shoulder, which only results in a laugh.

"But for realz, Q," Santana continues, turning serious again. "You know that ego of hers doesn't extend to her looks. You and me? We did that." As if Quinn doesn't already realize that painful fact. "So yeah, she's gonna feel good about herself when people want to get up on that. And it's not like you don't get off on people thinking you're hot."

Quinn exhales raggedly. "You're telling me I'm overreacting."

"Well, I mean, you usually do," Santana confirms with a bored shrug. "Look, Rachel didn't actually do anything you need to be worried about. She didn't even take Teresa's number. Just left in on the bar for anyone to pick up."

It's the way she says that last part coupled with the devious little grin on her face that clues Quinn in. "You picked it up, didn't you?" she asks flatly.

"Maybe," Santana hedges, attempting to look innocent.

It doesn't work in the least.

"Santana!"

"What?" Santana exclaims defensively, dropping all pretense. "I've been trying to get that number for weeks."

"And now your slutty bartender thinks Rachel took it," Quinn points out testily.

"But she didn't," Santana reminds her with what she probably thinks is a supportive smile.

"Give it to me," Quinn demands, holding out her hand.

Santana immediately bats her hand away with a scoff, looking put out. "Excuse you."

"Give it to me, Santana. I'm giving it back to that woman."

Santana scowls at her. "Like hell you are."

Quinn rolls her eyes. "Are you seriously going to call some woman who gave her number to _Rachel_ and not you?" Personally, Quinn thinks it's probably a sign of good taste on this bartender's part, but she sure as hell isn't going to admit that, and she's guessing from some of the comments that Santana has made that being second choice to Rachel had to have ruffled her feathers more than a little.

"No," Santana admits grumpily. "But I was gonna taunt her with it the next time I go to _Ten Degrees_."

"You're a child."

"And you're not?" Santana fires back. Quinn refuses to dignify that (sadly too- true) accusation with an answer, merely continuing to stare down Santana the way she used to back in high school when she expected her second-in-command to submit to her obvious superiority. After a tense moment, Santana does just that with a grudging, "Fine. I'll give you the number so you can go all headbitch on Teresa's very fine ass, but only if I get to be there to watch you tear into her."

"Fine," Quinn easily agrees. She doesn't care if Santana wants to get her jollies by watching Quinn make sure this bartender person knows without a doubt that she's never getting a phone call from Rachel Berry. "And you're never taking Rachel there again. Or anywhere else that serves alcohol."

Another calculating smirk appears on Santana's face. "I don't know. She seemed to like the place."

"Never again," Quinn reiterates firmly.

"Oh, lighten up, Lucy Q," Santana needles, rolling her eyes again "You got the girl. Now you just have to trust her."

"I do," Quinn is quick to say—maybe a little too quick—and Santana's expression is all too knowing. "I'm…trying to," she finally acknowledges, hating that she's not there yet and hating even more that Santana knows it. But then, she supposes showing up here and demanding that Santana give her a report on Rachel's behavior yesterday like a jealous, raving bitch isn't doing her any favors.

"Good. 'Cause I hate to see you screw this up," Santana tells her, sounding unexpectedly sincere.

Quinn silently echoes the sentiment. She's all too aware that she still has some work to do when it comes to trusting Rachel and the relationship that they're still building, but she's determined to get this right. She won't lose Rachel now that she finally has her.

She just has to deal with her jealousy issues.

And that bartender.

Then everything will be okay.


End file.
